July 2019. My solo adventure in Darjeeling began with a sense of excitement and a tinge of apprehension. I had heard stories about the mystical charm of this hill station, but nothing could have prepared me for what lay ahead.
It was early morning when I set out from Hideout Backpackers Hostel, aiming to visit the famous Peace Pagoda. The weather was gloomy, the sky covered in a thick blanket of grey clouds. A light drizzle had started, and the fog hung low, reducing visibility to mere feet ahead.
As I walked along the winding paths, the mist swirled around me, creating an eerie atmosphere. The usual sounds of the town were muffled, and all I could hear was the soft patter of raindrops and the occasional rustle of leaves. The world felt strangely silent, as if holding its breath.
About halfway to the Pagoda, I realized I had taken a wrong turn (thanks to Google Maps and low connectivity). The narrow path I was on seemed unfamiliar, the trees around me growing denser. The air grew colder, and I shivered, pulling my jacket tighter around myself. Determined not to panic, I decided to backtrack, but the fog had grown thicker, and every path now looked the same.
Suddenly, I heard a whisper. At first, I thought it was the wind playing tricks on me, but the whisper came again, louder this time. It was a faint, disembodied voice calling my name. I spun around, but there was no one in sight. My heart pounded in my chest, and I quickened my pace.
The path seemed to stretch endlessly, and I felt an inexplicable sense of being watched. Shadows flitted through the mist, and I could feel eyes following my every move. The whispering grew more persistent, a chorus of voices now, echoing through the trees. Fear gripped me, and I broke into a run.
As I ran, the chanting began. Low and mournful, it rose and fell on the wind. It wasn't the familiar Buddhist hymns that often filled the air around the monasteries. This was different, something primal and unsettling. The chanting grew closer, accompanied by the rhythmic thump of what sounded like heavy drums. Panic clawed at my throat.
Desperate to escape the source of the sound, I stumbled off the path, the treacherous ground threatening to send me tumbling down the hillside. Thorns tore at my clothes as I pushed through the undergrowth, the chanting a terrifying presence behind me. Just when I thought I couldn't take another step, the mist thinned. I emerged into a clearing, the rain momentarily ceasing.
Before me lay a sight that chilled me to the bone. An ancient, crumbling temple, its walls adorned with faded murals I couldn't decipher. In the center, a circle of figures, shrouded in dark robes, chanted in a language that scraped against my sanity. Their faces, grotesque masks contorted in a macabre ritual, stared sightlessly ahead. The rhythmic drumming was the beating of a single, massive drum, its hide stretched taut over a horrifyingly familiar symbol – the emblem of a long-forgotten mountain deity, said to devour souls lost in the mist.
A strangled gasp escaped my lips. The figures turned, their blank eyes seeming to pierce the veil between worlds. My scream was lost in the wind as the mist rolled back in, thick and suffocating. I fled, scrambling back onto the path, the chanting fading into the distance.
I didn't stop running until I burst into the bright, welcoming haven of the Peace Pagoda. Shivering and soaked to the bone, I collapsed onto a nearby bench, gasping for breath. Had it been a hallucination, a fever dream brought on by the cold and isolation? I never spoke of what I saw that day, but the memory of the chanting monks and the chilling sight in the clearing lingered, a dark secret forever etched in my mind. The Himalayas, once a symbol of beauty and serenity, now held a terrifying hidden face, a reminder that sometimes, the mist unveils things best left unseen.
Whenever I see a fog rolling in, I hear faint whispers, reminding me of the spirits that roam the misty forests of Darjeeling. The Peace Pagoda, once a symbol of tranquility, now stands as a stark reminder of that fateful day. I still can't shake the feeling that the spirits are watching, waiting for another soul to wander into their domain.
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